|
|
Executive Times |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
2006 Book Reviews |
|||
|
|
Friends,
Lovers, Chocolate by Alexander McCall Smith |
|||
|
Rating: |
** |
|||
|
|
(Mildly Recommended) |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Miasma Alexander McCall Smith presents his second
installment featuring Isabel Dalhousie in his new book, Friends,
Lovers, Chocolate. His meandering plot and disconnected dialogue made me
feel somewhat fogged in, as on a cloudy day in Of course it was much
better in the clear light of day. When she went downstairs the following
morning, Isabel might not have forgotten about her momentary weakness, hut at
least she was back in control of herself. She knew that what she had
experienced the previous evening was a sudden rush of emotion—the emotion in question being
jealousy, no less. Emotional states of this sort came on quickly and were
difficult to manage when first experienced, but the whole point about being a
rational actor was that one could assert control. She, Isabel Dalhousie, was
quite capable of holding negative emotions in check and sending them back to
where they belonged. Now, where was that? In the dark reaches of the Freudian
id? She smiled at the thought. How well-named was the id— a rough,
un-house-trained, shadowy thing, wanting to do all those anarchic deeds that
the ego and super-ego frowned upon. Much Freudian theory was scientifically
shaky, even if it was such a literary treat to read, but Isabel had always
thought that of all the Freudian conceits the id was probably the most credible.
The bundle of urges and wants that went with being a physical being: the need
for food, the need to reproduce——those two alone were enough to cause any
amount of difficulty, and indeed were at the bottom of most disputes between
people. Arguments over space, food, and sex: id business. This is what
humanity’s conflicts were eventually reduced to. By
the time she had prepared her coffee, the whole affair had been sorted out
and defused, It was natural to feel jealousy over those for whom one had a
particular affection, and so it was perfectly natural that she should have
felt the way she had when she saw Jamie with that girl. The sight had brought
it home to her that Jamie was not hers; she may feel strongly about him, but
that feeling could never be allowed to change the fact that there was between
them nothing more than friendship. She
had hoped that Jamie and Cat would get together again, but she knew full well
how unrealistic that hope was. Jamie
must come to understand this sooner or later, and that meant that he would
look for somebody else, as any young man would do, That girl at the concert,
with her posture of adoration for Jamie, would probably be ideal. It would
probably mean the loss of the comfortable intimacy which Isabel and Jamie currently
enjoyed. That was to be regretted, of course, but the right thing for her to
do would be to take pleasure in whatever happiness it brought Jamie. It
would be like freeing a bird that one had temporarily held captive. The bird
catcher may feel sad at the loss of his companion, but he must think only of
the happiness of the released creature. That is what she must do: it was obvious.
She must try to like that young woman and then let Jamie go with her
blessing. Isabel
had finished her first cup of coffee and eaten her morning allocation of two
slices of toast and marmalade by the time that her housekeeper, Grace,
arrived. Grace, who was a woman of roughly Isabel’s age, had kept house for
Isabel’s father and now did the same for her. She was a woman of clear views,
who had never married—in spite of what she described as innumerable offers—and Isabel often used her as a sounding board
for ideas and opinions. On many issues they tended not to agree, but Isabel
enjoyed Grace’s perspective, which was almost always a surprising one. “I
may not be a philosopher,” Grace once pointed out, “but I have no difficulty
in knowing where I stand. I cannot understand all this doubt.” “But
we have to doubt,” said Isabel. “Thinking is doubting.
It amounts to the same thing.” Grace’s
retort had come quickly “It certainly does not. I think about something, and
then I make up my mind. Doubt doesn’t come into it.” “Well,”
said Isabel, “people differ. You’re lucky that you’re so certain. I’m more
given to doubt. Maybe it’s a question of temperament.” That
morning, Isabel was not in the mood for an exchange of this nature, and so
she confined herself to a question about Grace’s nephew, Bruce. This young
man was a Scottish nationalist, who believed firmly in the independence of “Bruce is off to some
political rally” she answered. “They go up to Isabel
smiled. “Such a striking-looking boy in his kilt and his bonnet. And Bruce is
such a good name, isn’t it, for a patriot? Could one be a convincing Scottish
nationalist if one were called, say, Julian?” “Probably
not,” said Grace. “Did you know, by the way that they’re also talking about a
boycott of the railways until they stop referring to English breakfasts in
their restaurant cars?” “So much for
them to do,” mused Isabel. “Such a constructive contribution to national
life.” “Of course
they do have a point,” said Grace. “Look at the way Isabel
steered the conversation away from the subject of Bruce. “I saw Jamie
with a girl last night,” she said simply, watching for Grace’s reaction as
she spoke. “Another
girl?” “Yes,” she
said. “A girl at a concert.” Grace nodded.
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “I’ve seen them too.” Isabel was silent for a moment; the
pronounced beating of the heart the physical manifestation of the emotion.
Then: “With a blond-haired girl?
Tall?” “Yes.” Of course it
would be the same girl, and she should not have felt any surprise. But she
asked for details, nonetheless, and Grace explained. “It was near the university. There’s a
café there near the hack of the museum. They put tables out in the good
weather and people sit out and drink coffee. They were there, at a table.
They didn’t see me as I walked past. But it was Jamie and a girl. This girl.” “I
know the place you’re talking about,” said Isabel. “It has a strange name. Iguana, or something like that.” “Everything
has a strange name these days,” said Grace. Isabel
said nothing. The feeling of the previous evening had momentarily returned—a
feeling of utter emptiness and of being alone. It was not an unfamiliar
feeling, of course. She remembered that when she had first realised that John Liamor was
being unfaithful to her, with a girl who had come to Grace
was watching her. She knows, thought Isabel. She knows. It is that
transparent, the disappointment of the woman who has learnt that her young
lover is behaving exactly as a young lover should be expected to
behave—except that Jamie and I are not lovers. “It
had to happen,” said Grace suddenly looking down at the floor as she spoke.
“He would have gone back to Cat if she would have had him, but she wouldn’t.
So what is he to do? Men don’t wait any more.” Isabel was staring out of
the window. There was a clematis climbing up the
wall that divided her garden from next door, and it was in full flower now,
large blossoms of striated pink. Grace thought that she was concerned about
Cat; she had not worked out that this was personal distress. And indeed there
was every reason for Grace to think that, Isabel reflected, because otherwise
she would have to conclude that this was a case of an aunt—yes, an
aunt—falling for the boyfriend of the niece, which was an altogether unseemly
thing to do, and not the sort of thing that happened in Grace’s Edinburgh.
But aunts have ids, she thought, and then smiled at the thought. There would
be no emptiness any more, because she would again will herself to be pleased. “You’re
quite right,” said Isabel. “Jamie could hardly be expected to wait for ever.
I despair of Cat.” She paused before adding, “And I hope that this girl,
whoever she is, is good for him.” The sentiment sounded trite, but then
didn’t most good sentiments sound trite? It was hard to make goodness—and
good people—sound interesting. Yet the good were worthy of note, of course,
because they battled and that
battle was a great story, whereas the evil were evil because of moral
laziness, or weakness, and that was ultimately a dull and uninteresting
affair. “Let’s
hope,” said Grace, who had now opened a cupboard and was extracting a vacuum
cleaner. As she brought it out and began to unwind the electric cord, she
half turned to look at Isabel. “I
thought that you might be upset,” she said. “You and Jamie are so close. I
thought that you might be. . .” Isabel
supplied the word. “Jealous?” Grace
frowned. “If you put it that way Sorry to think that, it’s just that when I
walked past that table the other day that’s how I felt. I don’t want her to have
him. He’s ours, you see.” Isabel laughed. “Yes, he
is ours, or so we like to think. But he isn’t really, is he? I had a dove. Do you know that line?
The poet has a dove, and the sweet dove dies. But it could equally well fly
away” “Your Mr. W. H. Auden?” “Oh
no, not him. But he did write about love quite a lot. And I suppose he must
have felt very jealous, because he had a friend who went off with other
people and all the time Auden was waiting in the
background. It must have been very sad for him.” “It’s
all very sad,” said Grace. “It always is.” Isabel
thought about this. She would not allow herself to be sad; how sad to be sad.
So she stood up briskly and rubbed her hands. “I’m going to have a scone with
my coffee,” she said. “Would you like one too?” If you found this excerpt charming and
interesting, you’re likely to enjoy the rest of Friends,
Lovers, Chocolate. Steve Hopkins,
April 24, 2006 |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the May 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Friends
Lovers Chocolate.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
